Pain
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: When Vlad is caught and tortured after Max Payne 2, he reflects on the relationship between him and a certain bullet dodging cop.


Author's Notes: I need psychiatric help. That, or some actual sleep. 

**Pain**

Pain.

That's an interesting word.

I've had a lot of time to reflect on it, and its various meanings, during these last few... I'm not sure what. Weeks, months, years? It doesn't matter, really. Time is one of the first thing you lose when pain becomes the core of your existence.

Pain makes you look at life from a different perspective. It makes you realize that who you are, were or pretended to be, what you've accomplished or failed to accomplish, how much power you've gained or lost, it all makes very little difference on the big scale. In the end, you're nothing but a piece of meat, with far too many free nerve endings.

Still, whoever said pain has a purifying effect should have been hanged by their intestines, then see how _purified_ they felt.

I didn't die. That was my first, and only mistake. That's where it all went wrong.

They found me, and so my new life began. If you can call it that.

I can't.

At first I grinned and I laughed in their faces, made my usual snide remarks. Pretended nothing was getting to me. It was my specialty, after all. But it was like talking to a wall. A spiked wall being driven into you bit by bit.

Later I promised retribution, shouted out all the things I'd do to them, once I got free. How I'd burn down their houses, their families, their pets. Huff and puff and all that crap. I think I even declared I'd rain fire down from the sky on one occasion. It was about as effective as the first method.

Then they reached my breaking point. I had one, it turned out. Why hadn't anyone told me that?

I started to beg, and hated myself for it, because I could never stand begging. It was completely pointless, obviously. They weren't too keen on listening.

Then it was just screaming, and thrashing, and more screaming. Wishing to be dead so much I couldn't stand it anymore. But I had no choice but to stand it, because they wouldn't let me die. It was an easy way out.

I knew this wasn't Hell, because Hell was supposed to be all about fire, and here there was only cold. Besides, I'd never believed in Hell, except as a figure of speech. It was a fairy tale for adults, meant to scare you off being a bad boy. It'd been more effective if they told you about these sort of places, instead.

It was a lot of other things, though. Anything from needles to probes to electric shock to devices that were practically medieval. Vintage torture, now that's class for you. They were on a constant creative flow, never seeming to run out of ideas.

After numerous failed attempts, I gave up on trying to kill myself. I also gave up on dying due to miscalculation on their parts. They never miscalculated.

And finally, I went silent.

These days, everything is routine.

They don't even bother tying me down. It's like they don't even care anymore. I almost feel offended by that. Almost.

It doesn't matter, of course. I can't fight. I can't run. I can barely move.

Instead, I lie on the floor, curled into a ball, and I think.

Sometimes, the mood for philosophy strikes. I muse on the meaning of life then, go through endless loops of circular logic, struggle with riddles and paradoxes. But I always come up with one single answer for everything. Pain.

Sometimes a song gets stuck in my head, repeating for hours at a time. We had joy and we had fun, we had seasons in the sun, that sort of thing. Sometimes a memorable scene from one of my favorite movies plays out in front of my eyes. Or maybe these are things that actually happened once upon a time. From my old life. I'm not sure I can tell the difference anymore.

Sometimes I see a man chained to a rock, a bird nibbling on his liver, or another man with a snake dripping acid over his face. Kids' stuff. I would happily switch places with either of them.

Sometimes people visit me. People from my childhood, people I once worked for, people I've killed. I can't remember most of their names, and their faces often blend together. We talk, lighthearted conversation about any topic – art, music, politics. I can never remember what the conversation was about after it's finished, though. It fades away, along with the people.

Sometimes Max drops by. Dearest of all my friends. He is the only one that never changes. I know he isn't real because he understands, and the real Max never would. Too uncompromising. I should hate him for not killing me off properly, but I don't. He did his best, after all.

Love means never having to say you're sorry. I laughed when that thought first flickered across my mind, but then I began coughing up blood, so I stopped. It was still pretty funny, though.

I don't remember when, but at some point, we started to kiss. Now we kiss all the time. It never goes beyond that, because the only thing I can connect sex with is more pain. But kissing is alright.

It always ends the same way, too. He kills me. Properly. And I'm free.

For a few moments. Then the pain comes back.

It's remarkable that I'm still capable of some coherent thought, in between hallucinations. Or maybe I just think it's coherent, lacking in ground for proper comparison.

For some reason I can't seem to go completely insane. Something is holding me back. It must be the pain. It brings moments of lucidity. Moments like this.

I hate these moments.

Today, I discover I can still scream. They must be in a bad mood over something, because they put more effort into their work than usual. Between sessions, they have conversations in hushed, urgent tones.

When it ends, I try to turn my head sideways for some silly reason, and lose consciousness.

I awaken, back in my cell, to the sound of explosions in the distance. Gunfire, too. And screaming. Maybe they're having a torture party. Though most likely it's only my mind getting warped in delusion again.

I listen to the mayhem for a while, and find it soothing, like a lullaby. I'm close to falling back asleep when there's a loud slam against the cell door. Then another. Then the door gives in and bursts open.

I raise my head from the floor as much as I can, which is barely enough to see the shadowy presence entering the room, accompanied by a faithful Beretta and the smell of gun powder, smoke and blood. I recognize him on the spot. My own personal Angel of Death. Max Payne.

He stops in his tracks and looks at me. Stares, actually. I offer the smirk I always reserve for him. I doubt it looks anything like a smirk now, really, but old habits die hard.

There's blatant shock on his face. I wonder why. I'm aware that my appearance isn't lacking in shock value, but it's not as if it's the first time he's seeing me like this.

"Jesus," he utters.

Jesus. Huh. Now there's another guy I wouldn't mind trading places with. Nailed to a cross. Please. Big fucking deal. I can do that and still make my afternoon torture appointment. Son of God, too. Probably just a criminal pretending to be one. I can relate. Maybe they should start a religion after me.

Max approaches me in slow, measured steps, producing an dull echo against the cold steel floor. He gradually lowers the gun, then places it in his belt. He drops to one knee by my side, takes some time to study me with his gaze. Then, wrapping his arms around me, he drags me up.

I use the opportunity to kiss him, because he never makes the first move. He's stupid like that. The kiss feels so painfully real. It burns against my cracked lips. Hurts, but in a good way. There's an actual substance behind this pain, for a change.

Then it begins hurting too much, especially for an imaginary kiss. Reluctantly, I end it.

Time to die.

But he's just watching me with that detective-face of his. Trying to stare into my soul? A hollow laughter rings through my mind.

What soul?

This is getting unnerving. What is he waiting for?

"Kill me?" I remind him, surprised I can still produce actual words, albeit croaked.

Sullen confusion covers his features, "No."

What do you mean, 'no', you son of a bitch? What the fuck are you good for, then?

I try to reach for his gun, so I can do it myself, though the likeliness of me being able to even grasp at it for more than a second, let alone put it to any sort of use, is nearing a perfectly round zero. He stops me easily, without needing to exercise the least bit of force, and pulls me a little closer to him. Our eyes lock.

Oh.

He's real.

Well, this is awkward.

I think I'm supposed to say something sarcastic now. That's the way it should go, isn't it?

"Max, if I had known you were coming, I'd have at least called room service," not nearly one of my best lines, and it comes out as a hoarse, garbled mess rather than the intended sentence, but I think the point manages to get across, because he smirks. Sort of. It looks a bit like his old, constipated expression.

I grin, then begin to cough violently, paying the price for my extended speech.

"Try not to talk," he inserts some gruffness into his voice, "I know it's hard for you, but still."

I laugh. Even I can tell it isn't the most pleasant of sounds. In my throat, it becomes mingled with a strangled, shredded sob.

I know this is where I'm supposed to insert self hate or loathing, but there's hardly enough _self_ left for that.

He does a good job of not appearing disgusted, which I appreciate. Unable to remain upright, I place my head on his shoulder, burying it there. He continues to hold on to me, awkwardly moving his hand over my back. It's a weird mixture of friendly patting and gentle stroking. Picking up pieces isn't something he's used to. Especially pieces of _me_.

The whole thing is so grotesquely ridiculous, a great deal more surreal than my phantom waking dreams. Max Payne playing nurse. I begin to shake against him, tears mixing with low, manic laughter.

Finally, exertion gets the better of me and I settle into rapid, ragged breathing.

I begin to black out somewhat, hearing his voice through a screen of scars. He's saying things that are meant to be reassuring, I gather, though I can't really make out most of the words anymore. I concentrate on the voice.

He sets me down, carefully, like a favorite toy he's afraid to break. It's a bit too late to worry about that now. His lips touch mine, and I it doesn't _feel_ like I'm back in hallucination land, but I have to make sure.

"So – no killing me, then?"

"I'm all out of bullets, Vlad. Maybe later."

I smirk.

The pain is fading away now, and all what's left is Max.


End file.
